The possibility that she might bear a child was not one that Cyrene cared to consider. Such things happened, yes, but it was not as if she was taking a husband, a man with whom she must be constantly intimate. The one physical experience would be enough for her purpose, and it was unlikely there would be such definite results. When it was over, that would be the end of her close acquaintance with René Lemonnier.
An additional advantage to choosing the Parisian rake, however, was that he was as unlikely to desire to be wed to her as he was to father a child upon her.
So many of the men in the colony seemed obsessed, after a few years’ residence, with having a woman of their own, someone to cook and clean for them and to warm their beds. Cyrene had no urge whatever to become the helpmate of some voyageur or planter. From what she had observed of matrimony, in the union of her parents to the many between the women sent out by the crown and the men who took them as brides, a woman simply exchanged one set of constraints and tasks for another, and with little to compensate for the loss of freedom. There were those who thought that they could not live without a man or who did not care to try; most of the women who lost their husbands to the constant fevers and infections and accidents married a second or third or even a fourth time, especially those with small children and no way to support themselves. Still, the happiest women seemed to be the widows with property, women who controlled their own lives as well as their fortunes. As she meant to do.
No, the way she had chosen was best. It was only necessary now to embark upon it.
The Breton brothers, when they returned a few hours later, could be heard coming long before they reached the flatboat. Their voices raised in song set the swamp to ringing and echoed back from the trees across the river. They were as drunk as musketeers, and mirthful with it, so that they shouted with laughter as they staggered across the deck, shoving and pushing as they each tried to open the door for the other. Cyrene’s one fear, as she came to their aid by unbarring the door from the inside, was that they would fall into the river. The plunge would have little danger for men who swam like eels, but it would be entirely too sobering for her purpose.
Gaston had come inside earlier but had taken to his swinging bed only a half hour before. Even so, he was already asleep, nor did he rouse as his father and his uncle blundered around in the darkness, knocking into him and kicking over stools. Cyrene scolded a little, as she usually did, then retreated to her cubicle out of the men’s way. There were a few more minutes of banging, bumping, and creaking. Finally quiet descended.
Cyrene waited a half hour. The breathing of the two brothers was deep and sonorous, bordering on snoring. She could not hear Gaston, but from him she feared little. She had no idea whether René was asleep or not; certainly he made no sound. She was not disturbed, however. She had discovered that, like the Breton brothers under normal circumstances, he came awake at the slightest noise or movement. The difficulty, the few times that she had tried, was in getting out of her hammock without awakening him.
This time was no different. The hook of her hammock made the barest squeak as she eased to the floor and stepped to drop the curtain between her cubicle and the cabin into place. Still, when she turned, she heard the rustle of bedclothing as René raised himself on his pallet. Afraid he would speak, she went at once to her knees and reached out in the darkness, making a soft, silencing sound.
Her fingers came into contact with his shoulder. The skin was warm and smooth, firm with the muscles that lay underneath, vibrant with life. Her breath caught in her throat with a choking sensation. For an instant, she could not speak, could not move.
“Is it tonight, then, Cyrene?” he whispered, his voice a deep, rustling sigh.
The sound of it released her. “Yes, tonight.”
“I thought you had changed your mind.”
“No. No, I didn’t do that.”
“You’re shivering. Are you cold?”
She hadn’t been aware of the trembling in her fingers that also ran along her arms and into the core of her body. It had nothing to do with the chill of the air, though it was impossible to admit to it. “Perhaps I am, a little.”
“Then let me warm you.”
He took her wrist in his hand and drew her down beside him. There was resistance in her muscles at first, and an increase in her shivering, but after a moment of lying against the hard angles and hollows of his body, of being cradled in the circle of his arms, it began to subside. His hold was so warm, so sure. There was comfort there, and safety, but little sign of disturbing desire.
It took faith to lie there unmoving, yielding to whatever he might require. Faith and trust. Why had she not considered it? Women gave themselves to men every night all over the world in this same act of faith, and with how much justification? Men took the gift women gave without thought, as their right. How many ever realized that it should be a generous sharing, not something that must be given up as a duty or taken as a right?
Such thoughts were a distraction. She needed them to prevent the tensing of her nerves as René touched the braid of hair that lay over her shoulder, clasping its warm, silken weight in his hand. He found the thong that held the end and slipped it off, then pushed his fingers through the thick twining strands, spreading them over the curve of her shoulder and across her back.
The fragrance that was released was her own, a summery freshness like open meadowland. René inhaled it, slowly smoothing his hand over the rippling silk cape of hair as he pressed her against him. There was a swelling in his chest to match that in his loins. The incredible surrender of the woman he held was a boon he did not deserve. He knew it well, but he was powerless to refuse. The danger of accepting was acute — he was supremely conscious of the men sleeping on the other side of the curtain — but it was all the sweeter for that. No, he must not, could not, resist, but as God was his witness, she would not be the loser. His last few misspent months made it possible for him to see to that, and he would. There might be more than one purpose to the long hours spent in strange boudoirs and the tender lessons he had learned. Of what would come afterward, he did not want to think. It would have to take care of itself.
Cyrene was convent-educated, but there had been outings for shopping and for holidays. Her governess had been a rather worldly widow who did not believe in mincing words or ignoring facts. Moreover, there had been several pupils whose parents were on the fringes of the court at Versailles and who had heard more gossip and seen more irregular conduct of courtiers with servants girls and the like than their parents imagined. Even if it had not been for these things, Cyrene could hardly have lived with the Bretons along the riverfront and remained in ignorance of the physical nature of the union of men and women. She was ready, she thought, to suffer that indignity for the sake of what it would do for her. What she was unprepared for was the slow rise of curiosity concerning it that she felt inside her and the unmistakable unfurling of what must be anticipation.
Strange, but her breasts against René’s chest were firm and tingling, and there was a slight tendency of the muscles of her abdomen to contract in a fluttering spasm as her body conformed to his. The blood in her veins quickened. The cloth of her chemise felt rough, an irritating impediment. With some sense she did not know she possessed, she recognized the restraint in which he held himself for her sake, and was gratified by it, while at the same time she was, in some peculiar way, freed from her own.
Cyrene looked up, trying to see the man who held her in the dark. She could make out no more than the dim outline of his head. It was as well that it was so. She lowered her eyelids and lifted her hand, trailing her fingers over his shoulder to the strong curve of his neck. She touched the square turn of his jaw and the faintly stubbled firmness of his cheek, then brushed her fingers across the chiseled curves of his lips, exploring their smooth yet firm surfaces.
It was almost involuntary, that slight lift of her own mouth in invitation. He needed no more but lowered his lips to hers.
Warm, his mouth was warm in the coolness of the night, its touch exquisitely gentle, and yet the contact sent a tremor leaping along her nerves that she acknowledged in the deepest reaches of her body. Her breath caught in her throat and she allowed her lips to mold to his, engulfed in purest sensation as the pressure increased. His lips parted infinitesimally and she felt the tip of his tongue in delicate play. Blindly she followed his lead, enticed by the sweetness, the fine-nubbed abrasiveness, the insidious invasion, and inside her burgeoned an odd constrained excitement.
Her pleasure would have been greater if it had not been for the men on the other side of the curtain. Regret that there could not have been found a time and place without their presence touched her, then was gone. It could not be helped.
Hurry, they should hurry before the others woke and they were interrupted. The thought tumbled inside Cyrene’s brain, but René seemed to feel no such tense need. He probed the fragile lining of her mouth and ran the tip of his tongue along the edges of her teeth, he probed the corners of her lips and the sensitive molded outline. He kissed her chin and tasted the salt flavor of her eyelids and followed the intricate turning of her ear. So beguiling was the moist fire of his exploration that she scarcely knew when he slipped free the tie that held the neckline of her thin, much-washed chemise, when he slid the sleeve from her shoulder and put his hand on the gentle swell of her breast. She gave a soundless gasp and her breathing quickened as he trailed a moist and fiery path along the curve of her neck and downward over her collarbone. He drew the chemise lower and his breath wafted over the straining, tender peak of her bared breast, causing it to tighten before he took it into the heated adhesion of his mouth.
Desire flooded in upon her, swirling in her veins, heating her skin, settling with aching vulnerability in the lower part of her body. A soft cry gathered in her throat, and she barely suppressed it. Panic assaulted her. This was too magical, too cataclysmic. It might well be a binding thing, a necessity for which even happy widows remarried. She had been wrong to think it could be used so easily. She wanted to stop it, to go back to the way things had been before, but she knew in some corner of her mind that it was too late. Too late.
Her strength of will was gone, transmuted into rich and acquiescing languor. She spread her hand over René’s back, avoiding his bandaging, and was bemused by the ripple of the muscles under the skin and the scorch of his lips in the valley between her breasts. She shifted, allowing him to draw the chemise slowly down the length of her body and to follow its retreat with delicate application of mouth and tongue.
Oh, he knew the curves and hollows of a woman’s body, knew the careful and patient attention required to set them aflame. He was a tender invader, a bringer of rapture and joy. Cyrene lay, pulsing and entranced, lapped in beguiling waves of pleasure. Captivated by the splendor of it, and the wonder, she drifted in voluptuous acceptance that had yet a shivering edge of distress. Powerless in the grasp of ecstasy, she fretted at the soft sounds, the strained breathing, the soft rustling of the pallet, and the sense of fleeting time. And yet she could not deny the turbulent pressure building inside her, the urgent need that hovered, waiting.
The bright ravishment rushed in upon her so suddenly that she arched against him with a cry locked in her throat and her hands clutching his arms in a grip of ferocious power. Swiftly he stripped away the breeches he wore for sleeping and eased between her thighs. His entry, heated and stretching, brought an instant of burning anguish that eased, miraculously, as he pressed deeper. Her breath of relief and of glimpsed glory fanned his shoulder.
He moved upon her then with careful strength, and she thrust against him, rising to meet the tumult of his need that had been so long denied, so valiantly withheld, encompassing it with her own. Together in the darkness, fused yet shadowed and apart, they strained toward the ineffable grandeur that waited. It ignited around them, a brightness to meld or to destroy, to vanquish or to offer the rare gift of grace, and so brilliant was it that only time could reveal the difference.
5
THE FLATBOAT BEGAN to swing on its mooring ropes toward dawn. Thunder grumbled low overhead. The wind whistled around the cabin’s roof, fluttering at the corners. Cyrene came awake in a rush. She stared into the darkness for a long moment, disoriented by the solidity of the floor under her and the odd confinement of her position on her side when she should be rocking in comfort in her hammock. Then she remembered.
René lay at her back with his long body curled around her. His arm was across her waist with his fingers curved at her breast. She could feel the ridges of muscles on his legs and the roughness of his body hair against her own nakedness. The comfort of his warmth surrounded her under the bearskin that covered them, though the air she breathed was cool.
She had not meant to fall asleep with him. It was unbelievable to her that she had spent most of the night lying so close in his arms. Even now she was reluctant to move, though cramped muscles urged her to stretch. It was not that she had any liking for how she was placed, not at all; it was only that she would rather not wake René at this moment. She first needed to collect herself, to repair her defenses and decide how she must behave toward him.
It was also necessary to decide what she must do now. If the purpose of losing her virginity was to convince the Bretons to give her more freedom, they must be informed, therefore, that she was no longer intact. The difficulties in doing that suddenly appeared enormous.
They would not be pleased. That was a major consideration, but not so great a one as how she was to find the words to convey her new status. She did not fear Pierre and Jean, not for herself; they had never attempted to impose discipline upon her, never raised a hand to her. It was, she realized, their disapproval and their disappointment with her that she dreaded.
What they would do to René was another matter entirely. That had always been at the back of her mind; still, an aspect of it that she had not considered was that she would be responsible for whatever was visited upon him. He was in no real condition to defend himself just now. Under normal circumstances there would be little cause for concern; when René was free of injury, he would doubtless be equal to most situations, particularly those of this nature. Past experience would probably aid him tremendously.
That last rather acid thought disturbed her. His experience was no concern of hers, had, in fact, been to her benefit. Not that she wished to think of the manner in which it had proven useful. Certainly not. Though on consideration she could recall little indication that René’s injuries had affected his ability as a lover the night before. There had, perhaps, been a little more care and tenderness and less vigor in his treatment of her, but she did not think it had anything to do with his strength or lack of it. That was a bit puzzling, but also a relief. She was glad to know that he would not be defenseless against her protectors.
Nor would he be caught off guard. He was no more asleep than she was. How she knew, she was not certain; he had not moved or made a sound. Still, she would swear that he lay alert and intent. She considered it while thunder muttered once more over the wide river beyond the dipping, swaying flatboat.
Abruptly she knew what had given him away. It was the tension in his muscles. There was good cause for it. Beyond the curtained doorway, there was a shifting sound and a slight creak as one of the Bretons left his hammock, Pierre from the position of the sound. An instant later, there came the blossoming yellow glow as a tallow dip was lighted. It would be the storm that had disturbed him, that and the wild swing of the flatboat. The mooring ropes would need checking.
Cyrene made a small, convulsive movement, as if she would spring up and leap for her hammock. René’s arm tightened around her. She subsided. He was right, it would be better to make no sudden sound, no violent moves that might draw attention. On the other hand, the curtain closing off the cubicle was almost always looped up at night after she had dressed for bed. That it was down might arouse suspicion.
But if it did, what of it
? Wasn’t that what she wanted? Wouldn’t it be better to be discovered than to have to make a stumbling explanation?
Cyrene relaxed, lying perfectly still. Her nakedness under the bearskin brushed her mind with an instant of embarrassment, but she refused to regard it. If she and René were found out, it would be because it was meant. Such fatalism was soothing to her strained nerves, even if it was a sham.
The outer door of the cabin opened and closed. The sound of footsteps moving about on the outside deck came clearly through the walls. Overhead, the rain began to spatter on the split cypress shingles. It fell harder, taking on a wet resonance. Then the cabin door banged open, letting in a rush of wind that flapped the door curtain, sucking it outward into the cabin. Beneath it, Cyrene saw Pierre standing in the outer doorway with the rainswept darkness behind him. He was staring straight at her.
There was the thud of bare feet. The curtain was thrown aside. Pierre stood over them, his face contorted with rage and pained disbelief.
“Cyrene!”
She sat up, clutching the bearskin cover to her chest. A heated flush mounted to her face. She had not expected the guilt that pressed in upon her. It robbed her of speech and made her feel as chastened as a wayward child. Beside her, René raised himself to a sitting position also and began with deliberate movements to put on his breeches.
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